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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577664">Arena</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aysu/pseuds/Aysu'>Aysu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>EBF Collection [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Epic Battle Fantasy (Matt Roszak Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arena Combat, Blood, Brawl Royal, But it isn't too graphic, Combat, I don't really know - Freeform, Maybe - Freeform, Probably no pairings, Tags Are Hard, Violence, am i doing this right, matt is too good for this world, natalie has zero chill right now, that changes eventually but not yet, violence is a yes dude gets decapitated, what are tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:35:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aysu/pseuds/Aysu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Working up through Brawl Royale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>EBF Collection [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Arena</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is kind of old, but it's the start of writing up Brawl Royale. I do get the urge to work on it once in awhile but as with most writing things, I don't.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Roaring voices were muffled by the iron-reinforced wooden doors. Inside a small chamber, a young teenager anxiously fiddled with the end of a buckle over his heart. The room he stood in was little more than a tunnel with a barred gate on one side and the reinforced wooden doors on the other. The floor was packed dirt, trampled firm by countless feet. Dirty shafts of light came from behind the bars, but the area he stood was dim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a holding area for fighters to stand before entering the arena. If he was lucky and skilled, he would return to this area before being released back to the barracks for dinner and rest; if he wasn’t lucky, he'd get an unmarked grave and the long sleep. A calloused hand stretched over his shoulder to touch the hilt of the sword slung there, brushing past braided blond hair. The worn leather grip was familiar, and helped soothe his anxious fidgeting. It wasn’t anything more than a standard issue broadsword, but he'd trained almost endlessly to swing it properly, had defeated all of the other trainees, and even some of the lower ranked trainers. It had saved his life in his first arena challenge, and he knew it would save his life again today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gong sounded, and the wooden doors began to creak open. The teen took a deep breath and let his hand drop from his sword and from the scabbard's buckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’ve got this, Matt," he breathed to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nerves as calm as they would ever get, Matt stepped into the overcast light of the arena to the roar of the crowd, shoulders squared and face set in a determined glare. Across the way, another set of doors admitted his opponent. A teen not much older than himself swaggered into the fighting pit, waving to the crowd with a cocky grin. His black hair was cropped short, and his eyes were a sharp amber. He fit his standard-issue armor better, Matt noted grimly, which meant he had a better developed frame, having grown into his body more. His shoulders were broader, he was taller, and, if his bluster was anything to go by, he was more experienced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking his place in the center of the pit, Matt felt a thrill of excitement well up to wash away his nerves, and he thought his foe might actually be a challenge for once. Unfortunately, the battle barely lasted a minute, and Matt could only assume his opponent had underestimated him. It had been laughably easy to deflect the vertical slash towards his head, only to follow it up with a spinning slash of his own while the older fighter had been off balance. The crowd shrieked as a body hit the ground after a head, leaving Matt standing with a bewildered frown, clutching a bloodied sword. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That was it?" Matt wondered aloud, though no one heard over the din of the audience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced briefly at the bloody corpse he'd made before turning away with a minute shudder and heading back to the holding area. He hated fighting other humans, much preferring fighting monsters. Monsters had faster reaction times, and they were typically stronger than any single human. All in all, monsters were the better fight, and they didn’t always have horrified expressions left etched on their dead faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holding area was especially dark after the bright sunlight of the arena, but still Matt could see that the exit gate was now open. A muscular guard stood there with a leather pouch dangling from his hand, clearly waiting for the young fighter. His head was bald and his face scarred with a crooked nose, and he was dressed in a mixture of plate and chain mail with a club hanging at his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt barely glanced at the man, however, and simply held his hand out to snag the pouch as he passed—it contained his winnings, and he looked forwards to adding them to his growing fund. Yet just as his hand was about to connect with the pouch, the guard pulled the coin up, forcing Matt to stop and look around with a frown. Crooked, yellowed teeth were bared in a nasty sneer as the jingle of gold echoed softly off of the stone halls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gotta discuss release fees," the guard rumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's no such thing. You tried this last time," Matt shot back, trying to emulate the dangerous growl. Unfortunately, his voice cracked slightly and he flushed from embarrassment as the other man laughed. "Just give me the gold, Clod. I’m hungry." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye, as am I, so let's talk terms." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the blade still stained with his enemy's blood. "Alright, how's this sound? You give me my gold—all of it—and I don’t send you back to the medics with another broken nose. Unless you think they can straighten the mess?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, ah, this won’t be like last time, boy," Clod chuckled nastily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, two more guards, similarly armed and armored, and with equally ugly faces, seemed to melt out of the shadows. Subconsciously, Matt widened his stance as his body tensed for a fight. Common sense told him to just agree to split his winnings to avoid a nasty beating and losing all of his money. Pride told him that they hadn’t done anything to earn it, and fighting with bad odds was quite literally his life and job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeming to sense that the blond wouldn’t back down, Clod made a subtle gesture with one hand. A throat clearing stopped them before anyone could move, and all four pairs of eyes turned to see a young woman standing at the end of the hall. Her hair was a fiery orange, even in the dim light, and pulled back in a high ponytail, and her black dress was extremely low cut while the skirt only stretched to mid-thigh. Black leather, iron toed boots protected her feet. A staff was slung diagonally across her back and the worn hilt of a short sword just poked out from behind her slender waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re in my way," was all the woman said after a moment. "Move." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice was level and cold, and Matt found himself instinctively scooting aside, even though he couldn’t read her shadowed expression. Something told him this woman was dangerous—more dangerous than her slender appearance betrayed. Clod and his two flunkies had no such reservations, and instead eyed the newcomer with appreciative leers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's a pretty thing like you doing down here all alone?" Flunky One asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman shifted slightly, her hand rising to grip the hilt of her short sword. "I said </span>
  <span>move</span>
  <span>." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flunky Two sidled a little closer. "C'mon, baby, I'll move, then you'll move, and we'll just keep moving until we find the stars." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt silently choked with a disgusted expression. Did that kind of pickup line actually work for some people? The woman didn’t react at all, but he inwardly thought he'd be pretty furious if someone had said something like that to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re between me and my fight, which is between me and my dinner. Not a safe place to be standing," the woman warned in a tone of finality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When all that changed was Clod licking his lips, the woman lunged. In the span of half a second, she ran her blade—a long fighting knife, not a sword, Matt noted—across Flunky Two's neck, dropping him with a spurt of blood. Flunky One's shout was cut off by a crackle and a flash, blinding Matt and Clod, the latter who fell shortly after. Matt rubbed his watering eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust back to the darkness. He sucked in a breath at the sight of two steaming corpses twitching on the ground. The woman had already withdrawn a worn handkerchief and was wiping the blood from her blade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh, thanks?" Matt mumbled, unsure of if he was thanking her for coming to his rescue or for not killing him. Both, he eventually decided. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re lucky I was coming along," the woman replied coolly as she sheathed her knife. "Next time, don’t bargain, just remove them. Brawl Royale practically spits guys like those out, so it's no great loss if they turn up dead." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt wasn’t so sure he liked that mindset, but he supposed it made sense. "I’ll... keep it in mind." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don’t just keep it in mind. And for the gods' sakes, learn some magic. I’ve watched a few of your fights and it's all muscle. That won’t serve you for long." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt opened his mouth to retort that he was doing just fine, but started when a small object hit his chest piece, and instinctively reached up to catch it before it fell. The leather pouch containing his earnings sat in his palm, and he blinked at it before looking up to thank the woman again. She had already moved past him to wait in the holding area, clearly done talking with him. With a half smile, he pocketed most of the gold, but left twenty of the one hundred pieces in the pouch before tossing it to land at her feet. The woman glanced down, then back at him and he gave her an informal salute before darting off without another word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Weird guy," the woman murmured, though she was smiling. It was rare to find someone who believed in paying their debts in the mayhem of the Brawl Royale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pocketed the gold and turned to wait for her match. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elsewhere, Matt was trotting down a maze of twisting tunnels, following an invisible path through the catacombs beneath the arena. Witchfire torches lit the way with an unnatural red light, spaced close enough to avoid tripping, but too far to really be considered adequate lighting. Occasionally, he passed another fighter or a sleazy-looking guard, but for the most part, the way was devoid of people. After his run in with Clod, he was a little more wary of the guards, eyeing them suspiciously as he walked by, and checking his pocket with his winnings after he'd passed them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he was breaking into the watery light of a dreary early evening. A deceptively light rain was misting through the air, but he already knew he would be soaked through by the time he reached his quarters. It had been raining on and off for two weeks, and he wished it would stop. He was sick of the mud, of the flooded corridors that made navigating Brawl Royale even more difficult, of having to change clothes four times a day just to be dry for a little while, and of the many leaks in the roof of his quarters that he was going to run out of buckets for. Sadly, he could not control the weather, so he had to settle for grumpy thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A twenty minute slog through ankle deep mud later, and Matt was shutting the worn door to his personal quarters with a sigh. The space wasn’t much to look at. It was only one room large, and the furniture consisted of a bed large enough for one spread with rough blankets, a heavy reinforced chest with a padlock, a small table with one chair, and a cabinet for storing food. A series of thick nails had been unevenly jammed into the wooden frame of the sole window for hanging clothes on. Scattered across the floor were a number of bowls and buckets filled nearly to the brim with water that had leaked through the roof. A tiny fire pit took up one corner, though it was dead and doing nothing to fight the damp chill of the room nor light the gloomy interior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt cast a brief look of longing at his bed before slouching to the first bucket. Mutters about rain, leaks, repairs, and a drying rack filled the air as he worked to empty and replace all the buckets. At some point, the young swordsman's jacket and shirt wound up spread across the chair to dry, while the various bits of plated armor pieces were scattered haphazardly across the table. Matt made a face as he stood up from where he'd been scrubbing the mud from his boots in one of the buckets of water before setting the pair at the edge of the fire pit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Need to buy some more tinder soon," Matt muttered to himself as he dug through the bottom shelf of his cabinet and withdrew a handful of dried grass soaked in oil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spark off of his sword started a small flame that quickly caught on the half-burned wood sitting in the pit. Before long, a cheerful blaze crackled to life, sending a wave of warmth across the room and eventually causing steam to rise from the boots drying near the flames. Matt idly studied his store of food as he shoved the chair bearing his clothes closer to the fire to dry more quickly. The fruit would have to be eaten today before it went completely bad—as it was, the apples were looking pretty wizened. The bread was pretty hard, but it would toast well enough. What he really craved, but didn’t have, was some fresh meat. It was tempting to use the eighty gold left over from his winnings that day to buy a roast for himself, but he shook the thought off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Better spent on more permanent supplies," Matt sighed as he grabbed his dinner of bread and fruit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meat, especially fresh meat, was expensive. For the price of one roast, he could buy some scrap lumber and some salvaged nails to repair the roof, or new boots to replace the pair he was quickly outgrowing, or even a month's supply of dried foodstuffs. Meat, sadly, was a luxury he just couldn’t really afford just yet; especially not if he made a habit of giving away gold to people who helped him. Admittedly, the woman who’d helped him had been nice enough to save him, but she clearly hadn’t been expecting payment for the act. He could have walked off with all of his winnings, but the idea didn’t sit well with him. If he took that mindset, then how long would it be before he was taking the earnings of other fighters simply because he could? Why was he even worrying about this? He had more important, and much simpler things to focus on, like stashing his gold and eating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Matt slipped a key out of a hidden pouch in his left boot and unlocked the chest at the foot of his bed. The hinges creaked open to reveal an open sack, half-full of gold—the better part of his last two years of winnings—a first aid kit stocked with painkillers, healing salves, and bandages, a half a bottle of liquor he'd swiped from a passed out guard, cleaning and repair tools for his weapon and armor, his rations chips, and three changes of clothes. The chest was standard issue for Brawl Royale, to safeguard important items from sly contestants. The padlock was his own purchase—one of his first—untrusting as he was of the quality of the padlock that had come with the chest. In his first three months, he'd found that everything was a valuable commodity, from healing supplies, to clothes, to gold. The only reasons he left the food out were because he just didn’t have the room to store all of his food in the chest, and it gave a thief something to take instead of trying to crack into his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt grinned as he listened to the series of clinks of gold coins falling onto more gold coins. This brought his winnings up to just over twenty thousand: enough to buy an enchanted pouch to keep his valuables on his person at all times, rather than out of his sight in his unsecured hovel with only a padlock and a chest to guard them. He'd been saving for almost a year and it was about to pay off. With a proud nod, he shut the chest and locked it before taking another bite of his apple. Tomorrow morning, he'd head straight to the store to pick up his very own pouch... and some food, and some nails, and some wood, and maybe a pair of boots, and... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tomorrow," Matt muttered, shaking his head to chase away the thoughts as he turned for his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morning dawned bright and clear for the first time in weeks. Matt rolled over to escape the light hitting his face... and promptly fell off his bed and to the floor, knocking over a bucket on his way and spilling water across his leg and side. With a yelped curse of surprise, he sprang up, shivering from the cold water running down his side. Now mostly awake, Matt stifled a yawn as he stretched and peered blearily at his window. The rain had let up some time during the night, he noted with a grin. Hopefully, it would stay gone for a few days. That would give him a few days reprieve from getting soaked and emptying buckets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowned contemplatively at the thought of the buckets. With a shrug and a grin, he snagged up two and trotted to the stone entryway to pour one over his head, waking himself up the rest of the way. The second one, followed by all the rest, were tossed out the front door. Matt leaned in the doorway, wringing his hair out and watching the first people of the day walk by. Guards walked their patrol route, some occasionally shaking down passing fighters. New fighters traveled in suspicious groups here and there, thinking there to be safety in numbers. Veteran fighters traveled alone, knowing Brawl Royale was a free-for-all, in or out of the arena, and that you couldn’t trust anybody but yourself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt knew he fell somewhere between the two groups: he'd been there long enough to be confident in his own skills of defending himself, and had been on the receiving end of more than one group attack, but he wasn’t so sure he liked the mentality of every man or woman for themselves. Granted that he certainly didn’t trust any of the other fighters—the padlock on his chest proved that—so maybe he was a little more jaded than he thought? It didn’t really matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The swordsman finally turned from his door to pull on his shirt and armor and change into pants that weren’t slept in or damp. Fingers roughly tugged through his damp hair to try and straighten it before brushing the strands back behind his ears. The strands were getting long, and he mused that a dagger for cutting his hair wouldn’t be a bad idea at some point as he unlocked his chest and hefted out his gold. Now came the potentially dangerous part: getting to the shop with a large amount of money without getting mugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt took a deep breath, slung the sack over his shoulder across from his sword, and stepped confidently and purposefully across his threshold. The journey proved to be quiet and uneventful. No one gave him a second glance, and he made it to the arena store in less than ten minutes. It never occurred to him that he’d already gained something of a reputation in the Brawl Royale, and the other fighters didn’t look forwards to crossing him with his wits about him and a sword at his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let’s see... Knives, maces, swords, bucklers, gauntlets... Why the heck are they selling berries in this section? Whatever... Ah, here we go, the magic pouches!" </span>
</p>
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